


A Roman Holiday

by thecrownofthereveur



Series: Nightfall [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Birthday Party, Gen, Italian Mafia, Mobsters, Organized Crime, References to The Godfather
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 19:54:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8258480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecrownofthereveur/pseuds/thecrownofthereveur
Summary: Even on nights like this one it was necessary to work.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my beta-reader, Allowisp, for correcting gramma/spelling mistakes.

Don Falcone approached the window of the balcony with a drink in his hand. His eyes, lightly narrowed, were observing the backyard. Behind him, a smooth serenade was playing. People were starting to arrive. Aperitifs were being served on the tables. He felt pleased. His daughter, Sofia, had been the one taking care of the arrangements of the evening during the last months. This, solely, was a good presage. The Don smiled. Tonight his white hair was carefully combed backwards and he was wearing one of his best suits. Black and elegant. Of three pieces. And Italian.

It was still very early – barely seven o’clock at night. Yet the halls of the Major House were already crowded. Almost all of the Don’s nephews were drinking at the bar; his nieces sat on the tables chattering at loud voices; his grandchildren played across the room, slipping from the hands of whoever wanted to catch them. It was refreshing to watch. A small reminder of both happiness and prosperity. And power. To be invited to The Roman’s House. To be introduced to his family. To merely drink from his cheapest wine. Those were all great privileges among Gotham’s underbelly. And normally, the Don would have been a lot more selective towards who could and who could not have it.

Yet this occasion was different. Tonight was a very important moment for him and his Family. Tonight even the lowest of his business companions were guests in the house. Don Falcone took a sip from his glass. On the pocket of his jacket, next to his tie, he had a red rose. From time to time, he couldn’t stop his rough fingers from caressing its delicate petals.

Today was his birthday, number sixty five.

And due to the nature of his profession, this one was a very important number. His own father had only made it to fifty three. Don Falcone turned around from the window of the balcony to face his guests. In the Salon, his youngest nephews were playing, chasing each other around the tables. Their mother, Adelaide, was scolding them angrily. But Don Falcone couldn’t help but smile at the view.

‘Carmine, what are you doing here all by yourself?’

Suddenly, the Don felt the rough hand of Milos Grapa taking him by the shoulder. Milo’s face, tanned by his last stay in Italy, seemed hard and strong even with a smile on it. He was one of Don Falcone’s more trusted bodyguards.

‘Eat something,’ the man urged him, ‘dance a little, this is all for you.’

The Don let out a brief laugh. In his left hand Milo had what seemed to be his seventh drink. His skin looked considerably more flushed than usual.

‘Thank you, old friend,’ Don Falcone told him, lifting his glass towards Milo before having a sip. ‘I’ll keep it in mind.’

Milos gave him a spontaneous palm in his shoulder. In the meantime, the serenade was been replaced by a faster rhythm. In the Salon, people were starting a slow but determinate hall dance. Don Falcone’s lower lip twitched. He put his drink aside, leaving behind Milos Grapa’s tanned face to go towards the center of the room. Perhaps he would be lucky and one of his nieces would be in the mood for dancing with an old man like him.

 

Don Falcone watched carefully as the white Alfa Romeo made its way inside the parking. He had been waiting for over half an hour. People in the party were surely wondering where he was. This task, however, had a certain importance. To make proper welcomes was expected from a man like him. Especially for a guest of the likes of this one. It was not something he could allow anyone to do for him. At his side Don Falcone had six of his most trusted men, all in silence, neatly dressed for the occasion as instructed. In the inside of their pockets, they all carried a gun.

At this hour, the parking looked lonesome. Almost all of the guests were already upstairs. Their cars lay in here for the meantime. Long. Spacious. Of bright cheerful colors. Those were the city fashion now. Not that Don Falcone knew much about late fashion; the classic, that was a much more developed strength on him.

The Don adjusted his suit jacket to the night cold.

The Alfa Romeo had parked in front of him and, without wasting time, one of his men was already inclining to open the door. Then there she was. For the first time in almost two years, his sister, Carla Vitti, lifted up her eyes to look at him. She looked older. Surely, he did too. He offered her one hand to help her stand, and she took it pleased.

‘Carmine, _come stai? Tanti auguri!’’_ she said, embracing her older brother with empty enthusiasm. Even in high heels as she was, she still found it difficult to reach for his neck. The Don smiled at her.

‘ _Sto bene_ , Carla,’ he responded. Her sister, even after long hours of travel, did not had a hair out of place. She was wearing a black dress with a big hat, sunglasses on despite the late hours. She had come all the way from Chicago. ‘ _Molto bene_!’

Falcone’s men opened the car truck to take Carla’s suitcases. She intended, as the Roman had feared, to stay long after the party had ended. He would make no trouble of it. Her sister would always be welcomed in his house. She had a great business going on in Chicago. Like him, she was not someone to be taken lightly. And he was taking no chances with her.

The Don took his sister by her shoulder, and with delicacy he showed her the way inside. ‘But come, Carla,’ he told her, ‘the party is going wonderfully!’

 

By twelve o’clock, the Salon of Falcone’s Major House had reached a certain highlight. Music was loud. The bartenders served drink after drink. Little kids had all gone to sleep, and couples were dancing. Don Falcone had taken a seat at one of the tables. A heavy cloud of cigar smoke lingered around him. His breath smelled lightly of champagne. Sitting across from him he had some of his closest friends. Alfonso Armani, a fat fiftyish at his side, had worked with him for almost twenty years. He was happy and lightly drunk. The Don really couldn’t blame him; he himself was starting to feel the effects of alcohol.

‘Let’s drink for Carmine!’ Alfonso said, offering a very enthusiastic toast. ‘For being a true friend when it matters!’

The men on the table, slightly drunk too, didn’t hesitate to raising their own glasses in the air and drink. The Roman, on his part, was quick to wave his hand in dismissal. He appreciated compliments, he really did. Yet he knew better than to allow them to be too frequent. Adulation was not something he valued much. Thankfully, the toast was short, and the conversation didn’t take long to proceed to new subjects. The party had been splendid until now. No fights had occurred; guests seemed to be content with both music and food. There was a general sense of joy in the air and that in itself was satisfying enough.

Don Falcone inhaled from his cigar, feeling the complex texture caressing his throat. He let it fill his body, let the flavor of ashes burn for a moment before letting it go. It was a good cigar, he thought. Sent from Italy; a birthday present from his oldest son, though he wasn’t here to deliver it himself. The Don was about to take a second inhale when he felt a hand fall on his shoulder. 

‘Don Falcone,’ a voice called from behind.

It was Mario, one of his personal butlers. The Don turned to look at him and noticed a slight sweat dripping off his face. He seemed to have come with hurry, but when he spoke his tone was as calm as water. ‘Do you have a minute? We have a problem down in the parking lot.’

‘What type of problem?’ the Don asked easily. But even so he couldn’t avoid calling the attention of his friends on the table, who eyed the old butler discreetly.

‘A police man,’ the man murmured. ‘He has been prowling around for an hour or so.’

Don Falcone blinked at this answer. Police usually weren't trouble, even in these kinds of events. It was only polite for them to not to be. Under normal circumstances, the Feds would be the only ones who dared knock at his door. He wondered if this was the case, and if it was, what it was about. He cleared his throat, putting his cigar aside to stand up.

‘I’ll be there in a minute,’ he said, before making a small pause. ‘Do we know who this police man is, by any chance?’

The face of the butler went paler at the question. This time when he spoke, he didn’t seem as calm. ‘Yes, Sir,’ he quietly said.

 

Jim Gordon.

He was a very well known guy in town. At least, he was since he had joined the GCPD last year. He was no fed. Only a simple detective. The Don had already encountered him in the past in a few occasions. To know it was him snooping around the parking, writing down car models and license plate numbers, was no surprise.

Deep down, the Don felt some esteem for the boy.

Yet he couldn’t have had his guests feeling troubled by the presence of the police. The evening was after all to have fun. So Milos and his other bodyguards had no trouble taking care of the young detective. Nothing serious. Just a simple but very necessary warning.

After this, the Don let his men handle him on their own. And with the slight inconvenience resolved, he thought it better to go back to the party before he started to be missed. Nonetheless, going through the hallways towards the Main Hall, a part of him thought better of it. An increasing sensation of sobering up had caught him. Going back to the party just now suddenly felt like a very tiresome idea. Perhaps the rough work of the last weeks was finally starting to drain him.

Perhaps he was getting old.

Anyway, Don Falcone found it a better idea to retreat to his office. Just for a while. This one, situated at the end of the hallway, was a discreet but comfortable corner room. It was small. And it only had a window. But for Don Falcone, it was one of his favorite rooms of all the Major House.

It was still early to arrive in here, he told himself while opening the door. Yet he could tell himself that being early was never wrong. Inside everything was quiet. The lights were turned off and the watch in the desk marked 1:15 at night. The Don sighed, proceeding to take a seat in his chair. Surrounding him there were the already familiar opaque walls, the large library, the long carpet covering the floor. Above him, on top of the door, hung _The School of Athens._ It was one of Don Falcone’s favorite paintings. He had many others around the entire house.

Even on nights like this one it was necessary to work.

He knew it quite well. He had _chosen_ this business; and it was one without any type of schedule. And he was accustomed to it. Yet tonight, for some reason, he found his chair far too comfortable, the dimness around strangely soothing. His eyes felt unexpectedly tired. Maybe he was getting old after all.

 

Don Falcone opened his eyes at the sound of movement in the room. It was a brief noise. Not too loud. Still, it was enough to wake him up from his slumber. Around him the room didn’t look any different from before. Same library. Same opaque walls. Same long carpet covering the floor. And nevertheless, there was something odd about it.

The Don bent forward in his seat, quickly scanning the whole room. To have fallen asleep in here was far beyond the usual. He had to fight a slight disorientation before noticing the thin crack made by the half opened door.  Another sound made him tilt his head slightly to the side. Brief as the former. But this time far more recognizable.

A very quiet step near the office window. 

The pale slim figure The Don found that was not nearly as startling as it could have been. He was accustomed to Victor’s silent, predatory presence. And meeting his shiny black eyes looking back at him in the darkness, he was assured of the idea that this sounds of calm pacing were, in truth, completely on purpose.

‘How long have you been there, young man?’  the Don asked, once again reclining on his seat. Before him, Victor barely moved.

‘Not too long, Sir,’ was his dry answer.

Don Falcone deflected his eyes to the watch. It was nearly 2 o’clock. 15 minutes late. He wondered if Victor had arrived on time. And if he did, if he had stayed in the office since then watching over him while he slept. The prospect was not particularly pleasant. Given both Victor’s profession _and_ nature.

Although, this too was one of the reasons for calling him for this task. The Don moved to open one of his desk drawers. Inside he kept many types of papers and documents. Business arrangements, ownership titles, important files he could need at any given moment. And just this afternoon a special folder had arrived for him, courtesy of Jason Bard. The private investigator he used to contract for these kinds of occasions. He pulled it out and showed no weariness in putting it within Victor’s reach. The hitman’s eyes, avid as always, flickered on him before grabbing the folder.

‘I want it made tonight,’ the Don said. Victor kept silence while taking a glimpse of the papers in his hands. Yet it was no more than it. A glimpse. And then he was closing it again. ‘It’ll be no problem, Sir,’ he responded. ‘I’ll take two of my girls.’

‘Whatever you need,’ the Don told him.

Outside, a tiny rumor of the party reached his ears. Music. Voices. Flapper shoes dancing. It all seemed as right as when he had left. He should be back soon, nevertheless. Sophia and Louisa were surely looking for him already. He rose, feeling his legs complain as he stood up. Through the window he could see the lights of a full moon. Below, in the yard, a complex composition of tree leaves wouldn’t allow him to look at the ground.

It was a beautiful night.

He was lucky, he guessed. As in the past weeks, rain hadn’t stopped during both night and day. Yet for this occasion, the sky seemed as clear as ever. On the pocket of his jacket The Don still had the red rose. Mistreated for hours past, it seemed darker than when the party began. Some of his petals had started to fall. However, this was only natural.

‘Would you be going right now?’ he asked Victor. 

But his words were lost in thin air as he realized he was, once again, alone in the room. Everything in silence; the only evidence of someone having been there was the thin crack oin the office door. Or more precisely, its absence. At this, The Roman couldn’t help a raucous laugh. Of all of his men, he was sure Victor Zsasz would always be the one most eager to go to work.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. Thank you for having read so far.
> 
> This is the second part of my series. I'm hoping to write 4 or 5 more chapters. I know there doesn't seem to be a connection with this and what I wrote about Barb. But patience. Everything will have sense soon.
> 
> I took the title from the issue "A Roman Holiday" from the comic The Long Hallowen. It's a really nice read, besides been one of Batman essential comics. I really recommend it.
> 
> I hope you've enjoyed the story.  
> Comments/kudos are always a happy surprise!


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